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A Story by ViaLex

A revamped version of the original submission OCD has many faces. Here's one that's not so pretty, but the sharing of which may in some way help a sufferer, or one who cares for them.

I crouched in the living room with my baby brothers, unloading the gray plastic milk crate I’d repurposed to store my most precious toys. Knowing they weren't allowed to touch yet, the two buzzed with anticipation as I carefully placed the characters in their designated spots on the flower-patterned carpet. As I reached the end of my loot, panic hit me with a wave of nausea, my head light. Visceral and involuntary. I'd forgotten to include the most important piece; the miniature buckskin horse with the platinum mane. She was beautiful. I kept her on display next to the vanity mirror on my dresser. Frustrated and filled with angst, I instructed my brothers to begin setting the scene for our reenactment of an Old West shoot out. Realizing the unique situation of being allowed to play with my toys unsupervised, they wasted no time in their scramble to take ownership of the pieces they knew the other wanted.

I numbly exited the room, hearing the muffled squeals of their tiny voices as they wildly escaped into their pretend world of heroes and bad guys. I knew they'd use my Jafar figurine as the villain and Simba as his valiant opponent. They'd use the pink haired troll, Trolly, as the damsel to be liberated from evil, which wasn't right. It was supposed to be Nala. It had to be Nala. I felt anxiety begin to creep into my chest as I stood alone, silent in the hallway, trapped with the enemy inside myself of what was had to be. I wanted to return and take Trolly altogether, but I couldn't worry about that right now. I had my own bad guy to fight. I had to focus on my own liberation, which was a victory I never truly felt. I was tired already.

Standing with my toes level with the line of grouted tile, I counted, one by one, the individual platforms leading down the hallway to my open bedroom door. 32. It was always 32, of course. All but 8 tiles were the same size, which were cut to fit the width of the path. I never touched those ones. My eyes moved slowly around the swirling patterns of the first obstacle, its light mauve and cream tones, seemingly harmless. They were supposed to be pretty, but I hated them. I removed my socks and took the first step. I gingerly placed my right big toe on the darkest mauve swirl of the first tile. "One." I breathed. I used the narrow walls to help me balance, but only with my right ring finger and thumb. The other fingers, I hyperextended, never allowing contact. I pivoted on that big toe, skipping tile 2, hopping to tile 3. My left big toe, the first to make contact, was placed carefully onto the lightest, most prominent swirl of the flooring. Landing successfully, I counted aloud, "Two."

Leap three was easy. The space was mostly solid in color, which meant I was allowed to place all five toes and even a small part of the pad, onto the surface. That luxury, however, didn't come without sacrifice: because of a break in the pattern, the walls were no longer an option to assist me in keeping balance. I could sense their physical presence, centimeters behind my back as I held my body upright, my outstretched arms aiding my equilibrium.

"Four" I whispered, and methodically tapped my foot three times against the smooth surface of the safe, colorless baseboard. Then, I held my breath. Because that's what I did after step 4. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. After precisely 3 seconds of deep inhalation, I closed my lips and pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, closing the airway to my nose. From here, the process was quick, as more, mostly solid platforms lie before me. Step five, I jumped, landing flat footed; heel and pad making contact at the exact same time. It usually hurt. "Six." Good.

I was nearly to the soft green carpet of asylum when I lost my balance. It was only enough to graze the textured ground beneath me with my other foot, but it didn't matter. The familiar, agonizing weight fell upon me; the weight that confused and crippled, as a smothered piece of myself fought in futility against the other. But there was no way out. That wasn't allowed. I placed both feet on the ground and stared blankly at the mere four feet I had yet to journey, my lungs deflating. Four feet. It was never as close to me as it was to anyone else. It was everything I could do to break apart the lump expanding in my chest, and into my throat. I sunk to the floor. It was cold on my bare skin. Then I cried…deeply, silently, my body wracked with violent waves of suppressed torment.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I needed to be done feeling. There were few things worse than being caught this way and asked to…explain. Peeling my cheek from the floor, I gazed emptily at the poison of liquid pain, pouring through the imprinted barrier my face left on the floor below. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands as I bore the upward weight of it all to a standing position. My eyes forward, I made my way toward the sounds of laughter coming from the hallway entry where I’d begun. I didn’t hop, didn’t puzzle my way through. I just walked. Every once in a very long while, I allowed myself some graces.

I listened as my brothers giggled triumphantly as one of them “raaawred!” and the other “aaaaahhhhd!”. They’d brought an end to the evil in their story. Trolly kissed Simba, even though kissing was kind of embarrassing. That's how they’d seen the damsel thank the hero. It should have been Nala.

I heard the shifting of plastic against plastic and carefully peered around the corner, watching as they gathered toys from the floor and placed them in the plastic crate, when one of them harshly whispered, "no, don't put her like that! Sister doesn't like it! Put her like this." It still wasn't right, but I weakly smiled at the notion. Then it hit me. Sinking back into the shadowed hallway, my breath left me as I wondered if he knew what I was. He was so young. If he knew, mom and dad must know. They must think I'm crazy. They must hate the disappointment they feel. Perhaps that's why we never talk about....this. I felt as my face twisted in disgust. They're embarrassed. I knew they couldn't tell me this; I was their daughter, and despite their knowledge of what I was, of course they still felt the need to protect me, even if it was from the truth. The truth I had no name for….no understanding of why. Fear flooded me to my fingertips, and the reality consumed me.

I leaned weakly against the wall, body slack with a kind of exhaustion I knew no one could possibly begin to imagine. Just then, my brothers popped their little heads around the corner, and I jerked to attention. "What are you dooooing?! Come and plaaaaay with us!" I smiled a toothy smile and apologetically instructed them to play without me for just a little longer. I'd be there very soon! Satisfied, they retreated, carrying on with the free and unencumbered recreation children are supposed to enjoy.

Smile fading, I turned to face the darkened hallway. With toes level with the grouted line, I began counting the tiles.

© 2022 ViaLex

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emipoemi

Overall, this is a powerful account of a person who suffers from OCD. As a sufferer myself (though not of this type) I could relate very much to the horrific thoughts that run through this narrator's brain (you must have experienced this yourself to be this detailed, or do you know anyone who has?). If I may critique this story a bit, though, you have some continuity oddities that should be taken into account before you do anything else with this.

First off: "flower-patterned" (requires a hyphen).
I have a hunch as to what you mean by "my head light", but the wording prior to its mention makes it seem weird. Also the comma would not exactly be the right punctuation to lead into that. A semicolon or a dash would work better.
When you introduce the preparation of the hallway routine, you make it as though the action is continuous so by the time she takes her sock off to begin and say "one", readers are thrown off guard for the previous sentences have implied she had already begun this compulsion.
There are moments where the pronoun doesn't clearly denote the antecedent, so careful with those (make sure you're clearly specifying the antecedent when you're using the pronoun). An example, at least where I had most difficulty piecing together what was being described is when she felt herself off the support of the wall because of a jump. You write that she "sense[s] their physical presence" which despite the "centimetre" bit still kind of points to the brothers and not the walls, especially since only one hand had been on one wall to begin with, so the picture is now a little distorted.
How old are the brothers that they would address her as "Sister", and not by her name? Which brings me to the point that the subsequent realization about them "know[ing] what [she is]" implies she's surprised that her brothers know that she's their sister rather than this "freak" with OCD (which is what you're trying to mean).
Enhance the anxiety about everything having to be a certain way. You do come back to it towards the end, but it seems very fleeting and insignificant at the beginning, and it would be cool to really feel more of the struggle to resist that.

That's pretty much all my comments. This is otherwise well done, and I quite enjoyed it. I myself have written a mental illness poem which is on my page, if it interests you ("Face Not the Dark Alone).

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 5 Years Ago

First off: "flower-patterned" (requires a hyphen).
I have a hunch as to what you mean by "my head light", but the wording prior to its mention makes it seem weird. Also the comma would not exactly be the right punctuation to lead into that. A semicolon or a dash would work better.
When you introduce the preparation of the hallway routine, you make it as though the action is continuous so by the time she takes her sock off to begin and say "one", readers are thrown off guard for the previous sentences have implied she had already begun this compulsion.
There are moments where the pronoun doesn't clearly denote the antecedent, so careful with those (make sure you're clearly specifying the antecedent when you're using the pronoun). An example, at least where I had most difficulty piecing together what was being described is when she felt herself off the support of the wall because of a jump. You write that she "sense[s] their physical presence" which despite the "centimetre" bit still kind of points to the brothers and not the walls, especially since only one hand had been on one wall to begin with, so the picture is now a little distorted.
How old are the brothers that they would address her as "Sister", and not by her name? Which brings me to the point that the subsequent realization about them "know[ing] what [she is]" implies she's surprised that her brothers know that she's their sister rather than this "freak" with OCD (which is what you're trying to mean).
Enhance the anxiety about everything having to be a certain way. You do come back to it towards the end, but it seems very fleeting and insignificant at the beginning, and it would be cool to really feel more of the struggle to resist that.

That's pretty much all my comments. This is otherwise well done, and I quite enjoyed it. I myself have written a mental illness poem which is on my page, if it interests you ("Face Not the Dark Alone).

Rating /100